A Crow At The Barricade
by ACrowAtTheBarricade
Summary: "Everybody here is writing an epitaph. In one way or another. I am a writer. How can I not do the same?" The events on the barricade, told by an unexpected observer, and the unlikely way fragments of such different lives converge there. Slightly AU, and with a mix of book/musical. Weekly updates.
1. Prologue

I've just told Marius he was mad.

And now I'm doing exactly the same thing.

I saw him; I saw him writing that ridiculous piece of paper, saying "I'm Marius Pontmercy. Please take my dead body to" whatever-address-he-wrote.

And I got mad at him, I argue with him so much, I told him that he should be ashamed for possibly fail into motivating everybody on this barricade… but then…

Everybody here is writing an epitaph. In one way or another.

I am a writer. How can I not do the same?

And that's why I came here. I almost forgot it.

Well, first, I'll have to tell you a little about me. I'm not the most interesting person in the world. I don't have the most interesting story. But to understand this, you'll have to know. I'll be brief, I promise.

My name is Thérese. Writer, as I told you. I'm older than much of the people here, but I'm not exactly old… I'm only 25. Which is scary. But let's not start by that.

So I was told, my parents had some sort of scandalous and tragic ending. I never met them, I never knew what happened. My uncle raised me.

I can't say I love him, he was too cold, but I can't say I hate him also. For most of my life I've never been a person of strong passions. Maybe because most of my days tended to be gray, maybe because I felt I was talking to myself in that rich but frozen manor. The more I talked, the most my uncle repeated the same sentence he loved so much:

"You're truly a crow, with that pitch black hair and that shadow you drag around you… and your chatter doesn't sound better than the same bird, also."

With time, the more I listened to that, the more I started to think about the spirituous insult as a fact I should assume. Playing the shadow wasn't that bad. It was far more interesting than bothering myself with the stories of my uncle and his many lovers, or his endless argues with his only son, that lived for some time with us. Anyway, since I was very young I felt attracted by the art and the power of words. And I felt extremely curious about the way the world worked. Or didn't worked. So many things were unfair and chaotic. I was privileged to have a home (if I can call it that) and everything I needed to survive. It was different for so many.

You remember I told you I didn't really hated my uncle? One reason is that in fact, I have to thank him. For raising in me what drove me along my life, always.

One day I told him (along the "crow chatter" that I still insisted on having by that time).

"I will be a journalist".

He laughed so much as I never saw him.

"You're mad. Start convincing you it will never happen."

The way those words burned inside of me is impossible to explain. "Oh, I will." It was the only think I could think about. "I will be a journalist. I'll write against ignorance, I'll write against the grey spaces you think life is full of".

A few years later, he died. Leaving me some money, the empty house plundered by his lovers, and those words.

"You're mad, little crow. You're mad"

That same night, all my energies wanted to take me away from that place. And they did. They took me to be the journalist. They took me to the place where I could write. "Write what you know", they say. I wanted to write about the reality. I wanted to write in a place where reality screams and shouts in the streets.

On that night I moved to Paris.

Forgive me the possible cliché, but it was like if my life had gained color. Life started to be great. I didn't had much money but I can't say I was poor, I could perfectly pay a rent. Somewhere in that tedious past I learned to embroider ("like an educated mademoiselle!"), which was a good way to make some money too. During the time spent embroidering ballroom dresses, I was writing my articles inside my mind. When I had time, it was just a matter of make them jump to the blank pages! I wrote so much. About everything I saw on the streets every day. And I ran to all the newspapers to look for a publisher!

At this point, I became an expert at having doors slammed in my face. Somewhere in the middle I thought that using a masculine pen-name would be clever, and the doors started to slam a little less. But still, they slammed a lot.

The problem, actually, was within me, too. I had so many ideas, but it was really hard to finish one in the way I wanted. I was my worst critic, on all the possible senses. I needed something truly… truly magnificent to be written.

One winter night, I stumbled on the subject.


	2. Blank Pages

There was this truly despicable figure that moved to the apartment next to mine. Some drunken boy that used to make a lot of noise while I was working, rambling about everything.

I realized is friends called him "R". I called him "the biggest trigger for my loss of patience".

One rainy night, I was coming back from another "slammed-door-session", when I saw someone falling noisily down the stairs. For a moment I thought he was dead, I felt truly scared about that, but then he got up as fast as if nothing had happened, and for the first time he actually talks to me.

"Forgive me mademoiselle I didn't meant to…" he starts, in a strange, mumbled and drunken voice.

I was truly going to ignore, but then I see a bottle of whatever-alcoholic-stuff that landed _just_ on my latest article.

I can't remember what was written there, but I remember the sadistic things I felt about him on that moment.

"… you_ should_ be sorry. Have you seen what you've done?" I started, still in a polite version of my bad mood.

And when I'm picking the pages from the floor, I can't believe he's already there, "trying to help", he says, but actually _reading my things_ without permission. Is it just me, or people use the "I-am-drunk" excuse to do whatever they want just too often?

"You're some sort of writer or…"

I was pretty proud of watching my gloved hand hit his face on the following seconds. And I somehow managed to go back to the polite version of me I mentioned before:

"thank you for ruining my article… monsieur. Have a good night and I truly hope our paths won't cross again."

"Come on girl, what's all that noise about?" he laughed (_laughed_. I've just slapped him! Is he kidding me? Oh I forgot. He's drowning in alcohol!) . "Let me compensate you for that!" and he follow me upstairs, humming some sort of song.

"Why don't you go finish your pretty song at a bridge, and then throw yourself to the Seine?"

"I want to give you an article back!" he stumbles, but he keeps on. I think this time I'll be the one slamming a door at someone's face… but…

An article?

* * *

"You're being stupid Thérese, you know that, don't you?"

It was the only thing I could think while I was following him through the dark streets. Oh please. I have work to do, my time is precious, and… what do I know about him, anyway? Nothing except his "hobbies". Not that I'm afraid, I don't get scared easily… I'm fact, my reluctance was more on possible tedium than on possible danger. And well… at least if I face a bunch of criminals, I'll have something to write about tomorrow.

Probably it was at made me follow him: boredom.

It started raining a little, but apparently we arrived… Grantaire (meanwhile while we walked he had the decency of formally introducing himself. I probably muttered my name and remained silent for the rest of the way… I was still too furious with him for ruining my writing, and too furious with me for following him...) stopped in front of a café that looked really… normal.

He looked for his pocket watch. "Hey we're in time for the meeting… this may interest you." It was impossible to tell if he was being sarcastic or just informing me.

"What meeting?"

Yes, I didn't wanted to talk to him, I know, but the entire mystery was starting to annoy me.

"I told you I was going to give you something worth writing…"

"Yes, and you look just like someone who devotes his time to literature and study…" I started, but I doubt that he had listened. He was going upstairs, and since I came all the way to this ("important?") place, I had no choice but following. Again.

When I stepped inside, I remembered something… since I was a child, (and I'm perfectly aware that this may sound too rebel, or stubborn…) I had made this strong decision of… following no person at all, in no way. I don't even know why I decided it. Maybe because since childhood I saw humble people following others all the time, and having nothing good in return. _Au contraire._

So we can say that in fact, what truly annoyed me when I first entered La Musain, was having too deep thoughts about myself and my roots.

Again, I can't explain why. And I can't explain why going up that staircase made me think about it. Only if I knew that place was going to shatter the same recently discovered thoughts.

* * *

One of my talents is to walk into a room without being noticed. In fact, it may not be exactly a talent, but anyway I don't have much more. Nevertheless, it was useful here as well. Everybody was focused on someone standing in the middle of the room. The light was warm, the voices seemed full of enthusiasm, but they kept silent for most of the time to allow that person to talk.

At first, all the new information, that at the same time didn't seemed to be so out of ordinary that would justify an article, was invading my senses. I was, of course, looking for something remarkable, something that would convince me that it was a good idea to waste my time going to that place. Frankly, there was something different upon the air of that space… but impossible to identify for now.

Looking around, again, I found something. But not exactly a subject.

Do you believe in odd coincidences?


	3. A Remarkable Place

The succession of intriguing metaphors was notable. There was something on his words that incited action, even if we were all unable to understand it at first. There was energy, a subconscious power that would make us feel larger than life.

If he wasn't so familiar, I would be analyzing his speech in detail, testing it in all the technical points. But the unexpected memory was blurring my mind. That, and the feeling that as the speech was coming to an end, and as he seemed to leave is untouchable aura for a while, he seemed to recognize me too.

* * *

My childhood wasn't exactly outstanding, but this is not a tale of a little princess captive in a tower. For two simple reasons: there's no princess, and there's no tower. I never felt helpless: my uncle never scared me, he just exasperated me constantly but it doesn't kill anyone, I guess. And I wasn't captive: perhaps because of his indifference on me, he never bothered that I would leave the manor and walk around for a few hours.

His house was almost in the center of the town: there was movement, noise, all of those realities that looked shocking when compared to the absolute silence and lethargy that reigned inside. Here it was, just across the garden gates, a city full of people: alive, breathing and longing.

For a child, it was fun to cross that line. A marvelous cut to the quietness. It became more interesting when one day, walking close to the gate on the next house, I looked inside.

There was a child playing alone, a little boy. All the children I usually found were playing in groups, and I never felt like breaking that circle. Seeing a child playing alone, just like I used to, was intriguing. Probably I got too close to the gates of his house, on that too obvious curiosity that only a child can have. So close that in a clumsy gesture my notebook (one of many) slipped from my hands and fell in the grass on the other side.

As I was stretching my arm across the iron bars to catch it, he noticed me and walked closer; we probably muttered some "hello's" and blushed a lot, but a few minutes later we were running in his garden, with that effortless and uncomplicated way children befriend.

* * *

"What are you always writing there?" he asked, curious, one sunny afternoon.

"Everything!" I cut and kept writing, leaning on the roots of a huge tree that was the center of the garden.

"Everything…" he repeated to himself, looking up to the leaves that blocked a part of the sunlight. He rapidly got up when he heard me giggling. "What?"

"You have a really weird name…" I teased him, still looking at the page in front of me.

"It is not weird!" he tried to look offended but he ended up laughing anyway.

"Yes it is! I don't even know out to write it… is it "Aan-jor-las" or…" "

No, it's Enjolras! It's not my fault that you don't know how to write!" He mocked, laughing.

* * *

It was an interesting situation, to meet a childhood friend after so many years. We tend to imagine that the people we met as children stay that way forever, as well as we tend to be intrigued by the aspects that still remain on someone, or the ones that were changed with time.

I was never too good starting a conversation (actually I think I'm not too good talking. The world would be perfect for me if there was only written words.), but with him it wasn't that hard.

Somewhere between the happiness for meeting again and the scattered words, he asked me how did I ended up there… and I answered to the most literal sense the question could have:

"Oh, he… invited me." I pointed back at Grantaire, in the table at the corner, occupied (how surprisingly…) drinking a bottle of wine. "We live in the same building and we… met, at the staircase and…"

I was so busy trying to make the "meeting" sound polite and a great example of human civilization, that it took me a while to realize that Enjolras was trying to interrupt me:

"I see… well that's a coincidence…" he rolled his eyes and laughed, I guess he knows Grantaire really well for that sarcastic smile, and he keeps on: "but I meant… not here in the meeting; Here in Paris."

"Well, that… my uncle died last year, and I moved here. There was nothing holding me down to that place, and I wanted to… keep writing. Things are changing, I wanted to write it. Paris seemed to be the best place!" Slowly, as I was talking, I realized that I was walking back and lowering the tone of my voice. Most likely because I didn't wanted to sound mad, not again…

"Things _are_ changing." He agreed. He agreed almost to himself. "And you want to write _everything_ about it, of course" he smiled.

That was the perfect excuse for him to insist that I should come back. Tomorrow night. I didn't exactly said I'd come back, I wasn't even sure.

You can perfectly notice that I can't recall all the details from that conversation. Ironically, one of the things I distinctly remember was hearing him calling when I was going downstairs after saying goodbye:

"I just can't believe you really kept that!" he laughed surprised. I realized that, as I quickly turned to leave, my necklace (with an extremely I-don't-know-why-so-long chain that keeps getting tangled in the clumsiest possible ways on my hair too often) was almost hanging above my shoulder. I quickly ran my fingers through it.

"I promised I'd keep it, didn't I?" I laughed as well, as I looked at the tiny ring that was knotted to it, and left saying "I hope you've kept my notebook, or you'll be in trouble".

It was raining again; just leaving the café was enough to be completely soaking wet. Well, it's late, and I don't have patience to wait for the rain to stop; even less patience to wait for Grantaire to come home too. I guess I'll just run.

Being so focused on arriving quickly at home, I didn't even notice a girl standing not too far from La Musain's door. It didn't took too long to bump against her.

Today I'm stumbling on way too much people. This is going from annoying to disturbing.

"Sorry!" I stepped back. The girl muttered a "it's fine" and looked again at the café door, as if I wasn't there.

"Are you… waiting for someone?" There had to be a reason for a poor girl to stay there under that torrential rain on a cold winter night.

"I can go up there and call…" I insisted, but the young beggar stopped me:

"No, please… I prefer to wait here." Something in her pleading gaze made me feel I was in some way interfering with her plan. Whatever plan it was.

I just gave up and kept running home. Leaving a trail of dripping water after me I ran upstairs and fell on my bed.

Wondering.

Wondering even more, because as I slightly turned, something pulled my hair. It was the necklace again. On the usual gesture, I untangled it.

Yes, I kept it, I kept it for years, since I was a child. Why?

"So you have to come back! Tomorrow night!"

Something was really frustrating there. I was so intrigued by meeting Enjolras again, that I couldn't deal with studying La Musain and its peculiar atmosphere at the same time.

I hated to admit it, mainly because of my guide's identity, that it seemed to exist something worth writing on that space in fact. It was a strong punch in my self-esteem, to realize that a drunken student found a subject worth writing before me.

"So it is, Thérese…" I whipered to myself "you'll end up going back to that café tomorrow again, don't you?"


	4. A River On The Run

Yes, I returned to La Musain. One night, and another, and another. And yes, I started to write about it. I started to write about the revolutionary speeches Enjolras prepared for every night, I started to know each and every face visiting the café to hear him, to be a part of the uprising that would inevitably come.

This was not strange for me at first. The terrible conditions on our society were creating an effect that can be described as gunpowder close to a flame. It would happen. It would happen and from a journalistic point of view, I could be the first to write about the birth of a rebellion. It's not a change to be taken and studied with an absent mind. The days were flying; the meetings were succeeding more frequent and longer, the fire of the words was spreading.

Before it, there was so many nights. So many, staring blindly at the open notebook in my small desk.

"You have to write something, Thérese."

"You have to".

And on those days, it wonderfully changed.

I ran to buy all the books I could grad about the discussed subjects, I studied it as hard as any artist studies his muse. Every night I came from the meetings, I immediately headed to my desk to write. For some nights I didn't even slept, it felt like if my hand and the tip of the pen could never move as fast as my mind. It wouldn't take long to find myself taking my notebooks to the meetings, and as I was listening and observing everything, I wrote.

What was I writing, you may ask.

I'll have to answer you the same thing I answered to Enjolras, when we were children:

_Everything. _

Talking about Enjolras… at some point, I felt that he could be bothered of seeing me writing down his ideas. I asked him, more than once; he always answered the same with a gentle smile:

"There's no problem at all."

It's funny… I was so busy writing "everything", but still I gradually befriended most of the upcoming revolutionaries. It was like if one night I wasn't just walking in the café and sitting on a corner just observing… I was walking in and greeting everybody. People that knew my name and that didn't bother about my presence, even about my opinion. People that actually were interesting and different, so much that they seemed to compensate the lack of interest in me. I found myself laughing with them, sometimes. That's something I don't do quite often.

In my opinion, admiration is part of every friendship. Not that I'm a person that would easily admire anyone. But I admired them. Now I can see it. As contradictory as this may sound, part of my admiration became from being a skeptic.

This could be the subject for an entire book, but to make a small resume: I admired Jean Prouvaire for his poetic soul and idealism, something I'd never find in me for more that I'd write. I admired Coufeyrac for being an extrovert, because I'm an introvert. I admired Feully for his longing to free the world, when I was starting to think that would be impossible. I admired Jolly for being so concerned about the others (even with his hypochondriac lectures), because I've always been told that I'm too cold to care about someone. For one reason or another, I admired them all for being what I'd never be. And above them all, I admired Enjolras. There was something in him that secretly fascinated me. It felt like the revolution lived inside him, inside his eyes. For some time I thought that, if I hadn't knew him since we were children, he surely had lived a previous revolution. He breathed it; it was running in his veins.

Also secretly, I envied that. I both envied and admired him… for believing.

It was enough to be admired. I could say I admired him for being my childhood friend, for being always so kind with me, for being so determinate and passionate about his cause, for caring about the people even having no need of a revolution for him. I could say it, and all could be true. However, believing…

At La Musain, I learn to admire people who devotedly believed in something greater than them.

I wanted to have so much life inside me. Not the never-ending flight of a crow across my essence.

It took a while to realize. Mostly, again, because I'm not like it.

Sure, there was another side. My urge to know more, and the way they seemed to accept me as I am. It was expectable that they would all judge me as mad as everybody judged before. Instead, I never felt that. It was comforting.

After some days, perhaps some weeks, I started to understand the mechanics of the group. The meetings where always at the same hour (but they could spread endlessly…), everybody arrived before the time. Except Marius.

Marius was strange compared to the rest of them. He looked always absent-minded, like if walking up the staircase for the café and was walking up a tightrope that demanded too much focus. He was always followed closely by a friend: The poor girl I met outside in the rain. Her name was Eponine; and she seemed alarmed about being his friend, since she always followed him from afar. Otherwise, he seemed to be kind with her, and she could be interesting when she came closer and talked to us, even playful. Anyway, something dragged her all the time after Marius, a magnetism no one understood.

Of course, among this group, there was always Grantaire. Most of the time, drunk, but still, always there. Why? It was beyond any logical explanation. On the days I felt more kind, I furtively excused him; maybe he felt the same as I did: attraction by what we don't have.

This brings up a delicate question, because I hated to be compared to him. Which is complicated, since from this far, I can say we were much alike. The main difference was that he would not hesitate on showing his cynical nature; a nature I wanted to hide in me. In other occasions, he would try to force us to believe that he could be a better revolutionary than any of his friends; that could happen just minutes after one of his speeches about all that was wrong with believing in a change.

Sure, there was that time when he claimed that he could convince some artists to join us, and instead he spent the time playing domino with them. Such occasions would be enough to make Enjolras completely mad with him. I shared his opinion; except that I was able to laugh about it.

Now I see… I've written "us", a few lines above. Yes, I was part of "us", one of them. I became one of them gradually, without wanting it, without even noticing. From that position, that I feel both honored by having and unworthy to have, I guess I can honestly affirm, with a heavy heart: no one among us was truly ready for the following days.


	5. You Talk Of Battles To Be Won

"The staircase is full of shattered glasses again, Grantaire!" I screamed for the up floor.

"The bottle slipped from my fingers…" he answers, being a model of relaxation, slowly coming downstairs.

"At least you could have the decency of cleaning the mess you make when you're drunk!" I locked the door behind me as I was quickly braiding my hair to keep it away from my shoulders. The night was still warm, and the combination of hurrying up (I was late for the meeting) and shouting at my neighbor was making the heat even more uncomfortable.

"I see you're in a great mood again… aren't you late?" he leaned against the wall and looked mockingly at his pocket watch.

"We both are!" I'm starting to believe that he has some sort of fun making me furious.

When we get out the front door (me running, he simply walking behind), I was preparing to keep running across the narrow streets. Arriving in time at La Musain surely had acquired a certain importance, enough importance to have left a lot of dresses to embroider (the only work I actually get paid for) abandoned in a chair at the corner of my bedroom.

The slow and lazy way Grantaire was walking behind me abruptly changed to a quick run. A quick run that stumbled with me and made me drop my notebook on the floor… again.

Oh well, I'll pass the déjà-vu.

"Now you remember to run, right? Do you always have to do this…" I mumbled while I picked the book from the floor. When I got up he wasn't there, which for a moment made me angry again.

His voice called my name, right behind me: apparently, he had just stopped a carriage, one of those that wonder around the city taking rich people to the places they want to visit.

"You don't intend to rob those people inside, do you?" I challenged. He laughed. Somehow it still seemed offensive when he laughed of what I say, but since I was sketching some kind of joke it sounded even stranger to think like this.

"It's empty, and that way we'll get to the café faster…"

I rolled my eyes. Now he remembers of playing Monsieur Bourgeois…

"How do you intend to pay for that? You know, it will be extremely stupid to be arrested for not paying a ride…"

"You're starting to sound like my mother… and you've nothing to do with my budget. Come on! It's a gift." He looked like a kid insisting, but he quickly changed strategies… "…or you can go alone. I've seen you're a fast runner, I'm sure you'll get there in time…"

Well, don't blame me, but I ended inside that carriage as well.

What? It's still a considerable run! I have to spare my energies for more important subjects. Like writing. Or working. Or avoiding Grantaire.

Ironically, I realized that "avoiding Grantaire" was nearly impossible inside the carriage. The journey wasn't that long anyway, it shouldn't be that hard…

"Thanks." I whispered.

"You're welcome…" I could almost affirm that he smiled, but I was busy looking out the window, pretending to be entertained by something else. We had the usual moments of awkward silence, but I was quite getting used to it. At least until Grantaire broke it: "You have something tangled in your hair…"

It was the golden chain again. I instinctively pushed it down, while he was picking a small bottle from his pocket. I didn't have the time to say "you will not start to drink now will you?" as I was thinking, since he swiftly talked first:

"What's wrong with your fiancé?" he glanced at me, seeming curious.

"What?" I almost choked, probably coughed a few times

"You know, engagement rings are supposed to be worn on your finger, not in a necklace…" he said between drinking.

"I'm not engaged… this is not an engagement ring!"

"It looks like one…"

"Right, you're an expert about engagements, sure…"

"No, I'm an expert about things-you-can-take-to-a-pawn-shop. And that's an engagement ring." He concluded, all victorious, and stopped to drink again.

I wonder how much wine that little bottle can contain…

"Who gave you that, anyway?" he continued

"Enjolras." I quickly answered, hoping to make him shut up. He seemed to respect him so much that I thought he would not dare to keep on with that nonsense…

The reaction was the exact opposite. He laughed so much I thought he would be the one choking this time.

"Enjolras?" he kept laughing. "The marble statue, engaged! Well mademoiselle, I'm sorry to disappoint you and I mean no offense to your pretty person, but you're not getting any way with him, I'm sure he doesn't even know there's something on this earth called "woman", unless you count "Patria"…"

"This-is-not-an-engagement-ring!" I hissed, furious, sinking my nails at the velvet seat. Luckily (for him, mostly, 'cause I was in the verge of slapping him again) we arrived. He hurried to leave the carriage and pay, maybe because he sensed some "danger" coming from me, and I went upstairs, naturally, as every evening.

Enjolras was preparing to start talking when he spotted me at the entrance:

"I thought you weren't coming…" he briefly smiled. Seemed like he was already too focused on what he had to say, and it kept him of being able to continue the conversation. Anyway, before I could have the time to say something (honestly, I'd never know what to say), he started.

At first, I had an hard time focusing on his words. I even forgot opening my notebook and sitting. Something was distracting me. Something different.

That night there were more street maps hanging on the walls that usual, and the glance that those stained pieces of paper captured brought my attention to the asymmetric volumes that lean onto the walls as well.

Weapons.

The speech turned into a progress report, all from the group telling about how the people were stirring. The enthusiasm was almost contagious. Almost, because it hasn't hit two of us…

Me and guess-who.

Maybe it was what led us to sit on the same table, something that would never happen otherwise (we usually make great investment on avoiding that). I was too confused and surprised for such a fast progression, so much that I couldn't manage to speak, participate, and barely wrote anything, just scribbled a few phrases mostly to pretend that I was occupied and natural. Grantaire, well he was just staying there and… being Grantaire.

"Take the streets… revolution… yeah, right." He murmured to himself, picking the bottle again. I ignored.

"So it is! The time is near!" we all heard Enjolras' triumphant voice.

My writing becomes faster but it still probably didn't make any sense, I need to focus! Time, near?

"And yet, we shall not be deceived by our enthusiasm. The army we are about to face is dangerous, and our technical disadvantage is an issue…" he keeps on, he looks so happy deep inside, and so magnificent, a true leader.

Where he was leading us… "technically" leading me as well, was still a mystery…

"Technical disadvantage is now the fancy way of saying "let's all get killed together?"" yes, Grantaire keeps on, between drinks. This time slightly louder… enough to have Enjolras listening.

He walks closer.

"Therefore…"

He continues, always untouchable, the pure and mesmerizing image of insurrection.

"We need to focus… don't let the wine go to your brains!" unexpectedly he picks the bottle from Grantaire's hand and places it abruptly on the table, with a echoing and snapping noise.

A deep silence follows.

I'd gladly describe the expressions of everybody in the room, but I can only imagine them, since I was detaining my eyes at my notebook as much as possible, furiously scribbling. I was really curious about what was going to happen next, and I was afraid that even the slightest movement coming from me would stop or change the course of what was happening.

Slowly, Enjolras returns to the center, and continues, conquering as if nothing has happened before:

"We need a sign, to rally the people…"

"Did he broke it?" Grantaire asks, whispering to me and looking at the bottle carefully.

"To call them to arms, to bring them in line!"

"really, is it broken or…" he shakes the bottle "oh, he didn't. great." He drinks.

I feel like I'm staying the in the middle of a cross fire between these two, even if they are not even talking to each other…

Between some cheers to Enjolras speech, we hear someone running upstairs.

"Marius, You're late."

Yes it was Marius, indeed late, distracted, absent-minded and overall looking way too different of his normal state. Pretty sure I wasn't the only one noticing it…

"Marius…" Jolly approaches him "what's wrong with you today? You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

"Some wine and say what's going on!" out of the blue Grantaire gets up and drags Marius to "our" table, almost forcing him to sit down, the others follow him.

I thought that would be the quietest place in the room, and in less than fifteen minutes almost everybody is here. How ironic.

Well, Marius started.

"A ghost you say… a ghost maybe. She was just like a ghost to me… one minute there, and she was gone!"

What?

Grantaire starts to laugh. It annoys me that he understood what Marius meant first.

"I am agog! I am aghast!" he seems extremely amused, even more than the others "Is Marius in love at last?"

So that's why he's weirder than usual.

A brief interruption to tell you my opinion at that time about falling in love, and please forgive my over casual language:

What a stupid waste of time.

Really, Marius, fall in love? What a foolish, irrational thing to do now. How fool you are…

The memory of Eponine following him all the time came to me; maybe she's the one… that made it sound less foolish, I've started to admire Eponine as much as I admired all the other, her defying nature and how witty she was. But still… couldn't he pick a better time?

The same thought kept coming to me that night… what's happening to everybody today?" It was official: things were moving in such a fast and almost uncontrolled way, that it seemed closer to surreal, and either we realize it or not, we are in a mad dash to a change.


	6. A Heart Full Of Song

"Come on, what a great plot we have here! This is better than an opera!"

I've never seen Grantaire so amused with something for a long time… and I've never seen Marius blush so much, as well.

An opera. Music was no stranger to this group. Perhaps every revolution must have an anthem (didn't it happened back in the times of Robespierre as well?), we certainly had more than one.

But I really enjoyed it; in some secret way, I really enjoyed to hear them singing. Secretly as well, I could hear their lyrics repeat in my head more than once, the way they usually mentioned the colors of our days, the colors of the future: _Red and Black._

Even before that, Enjolras came back to the center of the room. I was curious to see what he was going to say, and for a moment I thought we was just preparing to go on with the meeting, ignoring the mess that all the jokes caused.

"It is time for us all to decide who we are." The revolutionary flame was again lit in his eyes, we could all think he was mostly talking to Marius, attending to his "condition", but deep inside we all felt Enjolras was talking to each one of us. "Decide who we are", he was asking, to us, to me.

The stir of my thoughts about that request couldn't last for long, because he continued:

"Do we fight for the right to a night at the opera now?" I always found a certain fascination on the way he was so challenging sometimes. "Or is this simply a game, for a group of rich young boys to play?"

Again my thoughts stirred, in a complete lack of organization, revolving around the average social condition of most of Les Amis, but the way they were still there, wanting to help the poor… and the way he spoke about a game, since sometimes I felt like I was playing some sort of strategy in order to analyze them better, in order to stay there.

That was one of the many extraordinary properties in his speeches, in his voice: He could, with just a few words, make my thoughts stir in an endless whirlpool, with the same simplicity someone could drop a stone in a pound, creating a row of never-ending spirals.

I'm convinced I was not the only one affected by it.

"The colors of the world are changing day by day…"

As above mentioned, I furtively admired those lyrics. I could live for decades, centuries; still I'd be unable to forget them.

_"Red, the blood of angry men!_

_Black, the dark of ages past!_

_Red, a world about to dawn!_

_Black, the night that ends at last!"_

The ideals behind those words were still too deep to be fully understood by me, yet they were as mesmerizing as Enjolras himself could be. That explains why I felt like hearing Marius throw his romantic description into them, using it to talk about his desire of his despair, was almost some sort of sacrilege. Yet, most of the group playfully followed him… at first only Grantaire, them the others joined (I remember to hear him shouting "Come on, gentlemen!" as a kind of incentive, and finding it an annoying detail.)

Strange as it sounds, the room became slightly polarized for minutes. For instinct. Not feeling identified with it at all, I unconsciously had walked away from my table (where almost everybody was now), and when I noticed I was standing right behind Enjolras, as if he was some sort of shield. Of what, I don't know.

"Marius…"

The tone of Enjolras voice, even than just calling him, was in some way intimidating, demanding enough respect to make most of the voices become silent, and to make me take a small step behind.

"You're no longer a child!"

I think he added a softer "I do not doubt you mean it well…" or something right after, but I hadn't paid proper attention to it: on that moment all I could hear in my mind was "Well done, Enjolras!" and a great urge to start clapping that I was fighting at all cost. Having him thinking the same thing I did was such a great feeling.

Completely aware of it, he continued, extremely decided:

"Who cares about your lonely soul? We strive towards a larger goal… our little lives don't count at all!"

It sounds incredible… it really was. But he made almost all of us all agree with him, in that instant… probably even Marius himself! As they softly and instinctively repeated those remarkable words, reminding ourselves of how red was the world about to dawn and how dark was the night that would end at last (I possibly hummed the tone of it for myself), it seemed like all other thoughts had vanished from our minds, except the uprising, even for Marius.

Silently, I came back to my table. I was slowly assimilating the pace of the events; slowly observing.

While I was gradually coming back to the written pages, my right hand leisurely playing with my pencil and my left hand holding a half-full glass of wine, Grantaire came back. It truly seemed like Marius "love poems" to his Lark had ended for now, leaving him without a distraction.

His Lark… what in the world could that mean? Well, I was used to see people compared to birds... so I ignored it.

A few words were gathering on my blank page, while Grantaire's voice was heard, along with a soft laugh:

"New notebook, right?"

It reminded me of people that talk about the weather for lack of subject to start a conversation. Why did he wanted to start one was still unknown. Anyway it would not be hard to notice a new notebook in my hands, the previous one had the cover completely stained and a great deal of ripped pages.

"Yes."

I took a sip from my glass. Thought that he would just leave the table and look for something more "interesting" to do (after all making fun of Marius dreamy face was such a good subject that I had to control myself not to take part of it), but as I looked up he was still there.

"The other was full." I completed, wanting both to unlock or finish the uncomfortable situation.

"Sure it was…" he leaves his bottle for a while, "you know… I'd pay to see what you keep writing all the time there…"

"You use to be pretty proud that you're the one who led me here in the first place, don't you?" I think I sketched a smile, between what (I now see) was my sarcastic sort of "thank you".

"About that… I did, but I wasn't expecting you to write so m… "

"Do you remember when you said…" it feels sort of entertaining to be the one interrupting him this time, since usually he's always doing it "that you "could talk the most superb twaddle for six hours by the clock, watch in hand"?"

"… sort of…" he seems caught by surprise.

"Well, I can do it… writing. I'd write 'till I run out of pages or out of breath. _It's my nature._"

Before I could see his reaction to my words (honestly, I didn't care that much about it, but it felt good to briefly talk about my zeal for writing, even if there was no one paying attention), the café gradually started to become quieter and empty, the candle lights disappearing. It was incredibly late, and it was time to leave, we simply did so.

Certain impatience in the air was still strong; that as we dispersed on the dark and still warm streets, without realizing that it was nearly dawn, almost everybody was still talking to each other about what was going to happen. Or just talking about everyday things... sometimes I forget how young we actually are, which mostly explains the overall energy of the group.

Sometimes even I forget how young I am…

"Thérese!" I heard Courfeyrac's voice calling my name and rushing in my direction "are you coming back home alone?"

"I'm used to…" instinctively I looked around. Grantaire must have left to another place where he could keep drinking for the rest of the night. At any case, walking alone never bothered me.

"Well we can walk with you for a part of the way… we'd like to talk to you."


	7. Follow Me, Follow Me

The mention of "we" made me focus on the shadows that walked a few steps behind him… Combeferre, and Enjolras himself. The vision of the three main leaders of the group, gathered stating that "they wanted to talk to me", was slightly intimidating. My first impulse was to ask "What have I done wrong?" but fortunately I managed not to do so.

"Sure you can…" I kept walking naturally, concealing the surprise inside me. I didn't have to wonder for such a long time for the reason of their talk, because Combeferre started explaining it:

"We've been noticing that you've been a regular presence at all of our meetings…" he looked a little intimidated as well at first, avoiding to look at me and cleaning his glasses all the time as some sort of excuse. "Therefore, we thought that you could be interested in helping us…"

"What do you mean with "helping" you…?"

He took a few seconds to wonder between words, looking for the right way of asking whatever he wanted to ask. Finally, Enjolras spoke, taking his turn:

"As you might know we've been talking to the people in the streets of the city, showing them their rights… and the reasons why a revolution must occur. They will be more motivated to join us if they learn about what is happening. And… we thought you could join us in that, as well."

A part of me realized it was expectable; the other realized I was not expecting them to ask me that, at all.

"But…" I honestly got stuck between my words and my conflicting thoughts "I… I'm not even vaguely indicated for that!" I finally spoke my mind. "I'm sorry, Enjolras… I can't." somehow I ended up turning to him; I knew he was the one who believe the most in this cause, and…

Most likely, he was the one who expected more from me.

"But, Thérese…" As I started to walk faster, Combeferre kept following me, as the others. "How can you not be indicated? You're well-informed, literate… how could an intelligent woman like you be inadequate for such an important cause?"

"You've said it all: it's an important cause." Too important for me, I thought. "Besides… no one listens to what a woman has to say. Believe me, I've been trying."

"Do you realize what your presence might mean for all the women that are discriminated as well in this city, even in the entire country?" I knew Combeferre had an astounding argumentation all the time, as if he was recalling all the books he had read about the human rights, and it was puzzling to see him use it to convince me.

"That's all really pretty and poetic, except that it can hardly work! Can't you see, I've been looking for a publisher for more than a year and…" without noticing it, the talk had become about my personal frustrations.

"You don't need a publisher if your message spreads directly to the people!"

The sentence was so powerful that I don't even remember which one of the three said that. It blocked me.

I'd never thought about it that way.

"I need to think." I whispered, more to myself.

They must have been sure I haven't seen it, but I clearly noticed how Combeferre was walking to me, ready to speak again, and how Enjolras discreetly nodded to him, making him stop. Even though I was starting to feel the logic and reason behind their words, I can't deny that Enjolras gesture made him look like some sort of savior in a small scale.

Arriving at another crossroad, we quietly said goodbye, two of them departing to different streets. But Enjolras stayed.

"Aren't you going home as well…?" I asked, assuming that he would walk away with them, and forgetting that in all this time I never asked where he lived, so I could have no idea of where should he be walking.

"I can take the same way you do. There's no problem."

Sometimes I wish I could say the same about all of this.

It never felt like he was pressuring me. To be precise, he hardly talked enough to do it… or he hardly stood silent enough to do it, as well.

The need for a justification was in me, not in him.

"Listen, Enjolras…" I only gesture too much while talking when I'm nervous, so it annoyed me a lot to see my hands moving in strange circles as I started. "I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid I can't do what you asked me. I really can't. And I know you might be expecting that, due to our friendship… I would say "yes", maybe you were expecting an immediate reaction, a different one… but things are complicated, even for me."

"I just want you to understand… you don't own me anything. Whatever you may decide… you should not decide it because of me, but because of the people."

Sounded way better said than done, I thought.

"By the way… I've been meaning to tell you…" he must had noticed that the subject was making me feel uncomfortable again, and so he changed it "I really kept the gift you gave me, on the day I gave you the ring."

"You did? You kept that messed and unfinished notebook, really?" I almost smiled.

"I kept it and I've read it, more than once…"

Lucky me that it was so dark in the street, because I believe I blushed. I don't even remember what was written on that, I didn't was more than eight or nine years old at the time… I'm quite sure it wasn't a literary masterpiece; I was just trying to start writing (and failing a lot in the way!)

"You've read that disgrace more than once? I have to recommend you a few real books…" I laughed, mostly of myself.

"Well, you did misspelled my name a lot of times..." he laughed as well "but I can forgive you that!"

"I can see… you read it to laugh about me. You should be ashamed!"

"I've read it because…" he gradually became serious "I've always wondered how it was possible; that a little girl from a wealthy family was interested in injustice and social problems, and in writing to fix them."

"It just… happened." I don't know how to explain it, either.

"Fortunately, it happened. It made me wonder how far your words could go… how much you could help the people, one day."

The fact that he searched for a practical effect of my work had a strange impact on me.

"I don't know why you were so surprised…" I walked slower "you come from a wealthy family as well… no doubt much wealthier than mine. And you're devoting yourself to this revolution… far more than…"

More than I was.

"So,_ maybe we are not that different._"

He concluded, as I approached my street.

"… thank you for accompanying me." I smiled. I was going to say "meet you tomorrow at la Musain", as in a usual goodbye, but it would only remind him that I wasn't going to join them talking to the people, and I wanted to avoid reminding it again.

We departed naturally. However, I couldn't feel simply "natural". All I could feel was… indecision.

"Well I'll decide it later. I have time." I tried to convince myself, knowing that "time" was one of the rarest supplies among the revolutionary stock.

Leaving this subject for moments, I must mention now a strange happening in that same night. While I was walking home, preparing to open the door, I saw him… I saw my uncle's son.

Technically, he's my cousin, right? It feels strange to call him that, he's older than me; he could almost be my father.

I know it was dark, but (incredibly) some of the streetlamps where still lit, and the dawn almost coming, it had been an exceptionally starry night as well… I'm sure he recognized me; he looked right at me, seeming slightly puzzled about my presence, but without a word. I didn't talk, either.

He still has this… dark presence, this shadow casted around. I used to compare him mentally with an automat, when I was a child, but that doesn't truly apply to him.

Instead, he looks like someone chained inside himself for something no one would understand but him.

It clearly shows. Even for someone like me, who doesn't know him that well. We merely shared a house for some time, but it hadn't made us characters of the same story.

I mean, not yet.


	8. My High Society

Insomnia is a recurrent part of my nature, I don't know why. Well, the crows like to fly across the night, don't they?

That night was no exception. But my intermittent sleepless nights gave me the time to learn that insomnia is actually, against all odds, very convenient at times. It may be useful to spend nights writing.

On that night, it was also useful to tell myself that the fact I was unable to sleep was "just normal". Nothing to do with the intriguing fact of finding that my cousin is in Paris, and mostly, nothing to do with the recent invitation I received from Les Amis.

Nothing. It's just insomnia, it's natural in me. I can convince myself that I'm not overthinking. Even when I am, in fact.

When I got up and picked the usual and repetitive thread and needle, decided to use the morning light to work (writing will remind me of them, I doubt embroidering will…), I heard some mess outside in the street. Not that the streets of Paris are quiet, but a discussion involving children voices in the early morning surely would catch attention.

The scene was happening right under my window. As I took a look, I was able to observe a bourgeois Madame, holding a young girl that looked like a porcelain doll, and shouting with two peasant children.

I went downstairs.

"May I ask what is happening here?" I interrupted.

"Those street rats had just robbed me!" the rich woman shouted in an accusative tone. The little girl, I suppose her daughter, hid behind her, but still there was a flash of arrogance in her eyes that is just cruel to watch on a child.

"I didn't! It was a gift!" one of the poor children, a skinny girl in rags, around nine or ten years old, tried to defend herself. "He gave it to me…" she pointed for the boy, almost crying.

"Madame, they are just children… how can you prove they robbed anything from you…"

"I can perfectly recognize that shawl!"

She pointed to a black shawl, that the poor girl had tied around her waist, in order to make her skirt longer, since it was just above her knees and almost completely ripped.

All of that humiliation because of a simple piece of fabric.

"A shawl of the finest silk! They must have stolen it from my balcony!" she kept in that hysterical tone that was starting to anger me.

"Yeah, I found it and gave it to her. Found is not stolen, and she had cold. We have cold out there in the night; do ya know that, madam?" the boy finally spoke, and shouted in a sarcastic tone full of rage.

"You little thief!" The rich woman screamed and walked menacing to the children. Somehow, I stayed in the middle.

"Let's make a trade." I kneeled in front of the girl, taking the wool shawl I wrapped around my shoulders when I went downstairs, and giving it to her. "Can you return the shawl now, please?" I tried to talk calmly.

When the black piece of fabric was in my hands, I just returned it to the woman avoiding at most to look at her, so I don't get mad.

The little girl hugged me and ran away, the boy was going to do the same but I stopped him and spoke as discreetly as possible:

"You were supposed to stay out of trouble, don't you Gavroche?"

"The bureau is closed," he whispered, starting his usual mocking phrase. Yet, he smiled to me. He had such a terrible life, but he always smiled to me since we first met at La Musain."I receive no more complaints! And I'm late, I'm to meet the students now!" and he left.

"I believe the problem is now solved." I nodded to the woman and planned to walk away. She didn't have the same plan.

"You should be ashamed of yourself!"

It's always strange when you hear the phrase you want to say coming exactly from the person you want to insult.

"Excuse me?" I turned to her. I don't bother about trivial discussions, why am I not walking away from this one?

Maybe because it was not just trivial.

"You encourage those little rats? You shouldn't even talk to them!" Either for being richer on older than me, she felt in the right to start giving me a lecture.

"Of course not. It's always better to treat them like garbage…" I couldn't avoid the sarcasm.

"They _are_ garbage, Mademoiselle!" the cruel sentence was my trigger.

"They are children! And they fight to survive everyday! What makes them different from your daughter, except the money?" my voice tone was becoming louder.

"Don't you dare to compare my precious daughter with this scum!" she replied immediately "they are not even worth you pity! You should stop making them feel that they are worth something, _that they are like us."_

I wanted to argue, to attack her with all the words I could use for that, but she naturally left. I just ran up the stairs for my apartment and slammed the door furiously.

That ignorant creature. She was, more than the peasants, a product of this brutal social system. So wrong in so many ways, their mistakes being the same from the general upper class, of course.

They were equal to us. We all have to be equal. So many wander the streets deserving equality and having nothing but pain.

When I sat on my bed my feet slammed against the wooden box with my needles and thread. The tools were right here on the floor, yet the work is far from being finished. Sure, if I don't pick the needle and start to work, it's doesn't matter that I have a box full of supplies.

The combination of those events, and of that simple accident, created a storm in me.

"_Stop making them feel that they are worth something, that they are like us." _

They _are_ worth something, _they are like us._

The tools and the means may lie around, but if they're not used, the work will never be finished.

"_Making them feel they are worth." _

Did I _really _made it until this morning?

Oh, I wrote about it.

Words were the tool.

Words were the tool I never take up to them.

On less than five minutes, I picked a notebook, ran downstairs, and ran as fast as I could across the crowded streets to the café.

When I arrived to the door they were all coming out after gathering, preparing to leave. Enjolras stared at me, as I was still heavily breathing from the rush, and asked softly, seeming intrigued by my presence:

"Thérese? What are you doing here so soon?"

Almost certainly a defying smile came to my face:

"Today I'm going with you."

* * *

When we get accustomed to our lives, we never look down as much as we think we do.

The human being is an adaptable creature. We can become a part of the surrounding environment, with time…

It was heartbreaking to see the lives so many of our people are forced to adapt themselves. No one should be submitted to that. No one should wander the streets in rags, begging for something to eat, begging to endure their painful existence.

Of course, it sounds bad when written. "What a pity".

Well, go, and see it. It's only seeing it that you know how bad it "sounds", how real it is.

Look down.

Researching about social injustice for so long and witnessing some episodes along the last year, I thought I had a clear view of the subject, but I can now say that only on that day I had a complete idea of what poverty, in all its meanings, is. I was looking down, and going down as well. I got involved with the action in that morning, way deeply involved; I lost the track of the hours, of how many people I talked to, of how many starving children I've seen running across the dirty streets, of how many pleading mothers and of how many people without any hope inside them. I felt that my, our words, where truthfully helping someone.

My ice dome was cracking.


	9. All I Need To Know

Our group walked even deeper into the slums of Saint-Michel. We were almost all there. Except maybe Grantaire, but I don't know if he usually joins them… doesn't sound like him, anyway. Apart from him, even Éponine (and Gavroche, of course) appeared.

She seems to blend here with certain bravery. I remember smiling to myself when she walked closer to Marius, defiantly picking the book from his hands:

"You should not judge a girl for the way she looks… I could have been a student too!" she smiled. I've noticed that she knows how to read, in fact. Intriguing. Even more intriguing was the sadness that fell upon her when Marius smiled and walked away.

The hours passed. On the late afternoon we started walking back.

It's odd and wonderful, how happy we felt. Of course we all held some concern, some impatience; still, we felt truly happy as we walked away realizing that at least we helped a little and that we would help even more in the future, as we talked about our plans.

At some point, Marius started to stray from the group. When we realized it, he was walking far away from us, too focused as if he was following something or someone… even with the absence of Grantaire (that used to be the first of take part on those "discussions"), we all had certain fun wondering where he could be going with such haste without even saying goodbye. It was almost a betting game:

"Well… let's see…" Feuilly kept trying a guess "New hat… new coat… maybe he's going to an examination?"

"It can be, he looks stupid enough…" Courfeyrac added, making most of us chuckle.

"No, it's too late for that. And is it supposed to look stupid before an examination?" I smiled, playing along. "If you're too head-above-clouds you'll end up having a terrible grade…"

"You have a point there!" Feuilly said. "Let's forget about the examination then. So, maybe he is…"

"Maybe he's going to meet his beloved one…" Jehan said quietly, slightly blushing as usual on him…

"Far more likely. But wait, he had a way to find that out!" Courfeyrac affirmed, discreetly gesturing to the entire group to follow him… _"Hey! Marius! Where are you going?" _he shouted and waved without any discretion, I'm sure everybody that was passing around listened, including Marius, that instead of trying any answer blushed immensely and almost disappeared without a word.

"Yes, he's going to meet _his beloved one_… no doubt!" Courfeyrac concluded victoriously, and even being a bit sorry for Marius, we all started laughing. I believe even Enjolras, the leader that had stood so silent for most of the way, so focused on his revolution, laughed with us.

During our walk, Enjolras started talking about his plans again. Something about printing more flyers, reaching more people. I usually pay total attention to his words, but this time I was unable to do so. For two reasons: first, because I immediately volunteered to help, and that's just too unusual in me. I guess it was because he was talking about writing…

And second… because as we walked closer to my street, I noticed a shadow, waiting at my door.

May it be him?

I hastily said goodbye (ironically, in a similar style to what Marius did before…) and walked home, trying to distinguish the face of the waiting figure.

Walking closer I figured out it was just my landlord. Well, at least I have no reason to be intrigued.

Or maybe I did… why would the landlord wait for me?

After a succession of educated "how-do-you-do"'s, he quickly explained:

"Probably you're aware that you should have paid your rent a few days ago, mademoiselle Thérese?"

Of course I probably was, I am aware of paying the rent in time every month… except probably in this one. I forgot.

"Sure, Monsieur… but…" I mentally calculated how much money should I have home now, but all I could recall was piles of work to be done and no payment received 'till now. "I need just one more day! One day or two and I'll pay everything."

The man seemed annoyed. Obviously.

"I'll take in consideration the fact that you always pay in time. But just a few more days." Even though he was saying what I wanted to hear, it sounded somehow menacing.

After thanking him, I disappeared upstairs.

"You_ have_ to work, Thérese." I whispered to myself, realizing that I had to stop sinking everything in procrastination, with no apparent reason.

And so I started, trying to forget the revolution for at least some time.

Too many tedious hours followed. At some point, when the sky got darker and the night was embracing the city for a long time already, when I was unable to count how much time I spend working, I just had to stop.

Perhaps because my hands were almost hurt, perhaps because my mind was way too full.

And at some point, yes, I was dragged to my desk and to my notebook.

The huge lack of sleep begun to weight upon my head, yet I couldn't go to bed now. It was too frustrating to admit that I let all my energy run to something I didn't related to, leaving almost nothing to what truly was a part of me.

Of course in the following minute I jumped on my chair realizing I had fallen asleep using my notebook as a pillow. If there wasn't someone knocking at the door I would have stayed there 'till morning.

In fact… it wasn't exactly someone knocking, but something stumbling upon it. I opened the door cautiously, and saw two familiar faces helping a third person going upstairs.

A third person. I don't need to recognize the face… I guess my upstairs neighbor fell into an alcoholic coma at La Musain again.

Jolly and Bossuet were both talking… well, to be more precise, each one was in fact making a monologue about where to find Grantaire's apartment keys, since Grantaire wasn't surely listening to any of them.

Oh, please. Here I go again.

"He keeps an extra key under the carpet close to the door… very original, right?" I hide my ink-stained hands on my robe pockets and stepped outside.

Jolly stopped pushing Grantaire upstairs and looked up in my direction:

"Sorry Thérese… we probably woke you… to be honest I didn't even remember you two live on the same building, but…"

"That's-'cause-you-don't-live-here-'cause-if-you-did-she-wouldn't-let-you-forget-cause-she'll-be-rambling-all-the-time-telling-you-to-be-quiet-and-stop-breaking-wine-bottles-on-the-staircase-and-…"

Impressive. The first time he actually "speaks" (if I can call all that mumbling "speaking") is to insult me.

"You better be quiet or I'll lock the front door next time!" I hissed quickly and ignoring his "seeeee-whaaaat-I'm-saaaaaying?" I continued: "There's no problem, I wasn't sleeping. And I have to go back to work… so if you need any help just knock."

It didn't take them too long to leave Grantaire home and start coming back. As Bossuet stopped again in front of my door, it was possible to feel he had a certain urge to ask the reason of my absence at La Musain tonight.

Luckily he didn't ask, because the last thing I wanted was to be forced to answer something like "I couldn't go because all my work is late and my rent is overdue because I stupidly forgot the deadline."

"So, goodnight Thérese… see you tomorrow!" Bossuet concluded, and chuckled "we can see you're truly involved in your work…"

Unconsciously I lift a hand for my face and realized there was an ink stain in one of my cheeks, probably remaining from when I fell asleep on my desk. I ended up laughing too:

"I fell asleep while I was writing…" I admitted. Jolly was coming downstairs too, and I had to be careful not to keep laughing because his speech only made the situation more humorous:

"You should be careful with that; do you know that lack of sleep can be cause or symptom of innumerous diseases? You may get ill because of it… maybe you are already, you're looking too pale!"

"That's because I am pale! I'm fine!", I think I muttered between discreet laughs, as he was having too much fun insisting. "I'm like this since I was a child; usually I stay up 'till really late, I just can't sleep…"

"So it may be an enduring problem!"

"There is no problem! Thank you for your concern, Jolly, really, but..."

"It may even be something hereditary! Were your parents like that too?"

"I don't know… I never met them. They died when I was a baby."

Usually I take the question of my parents' inexistence in a somehow trivial way. The fact is I never really met them, and it's hard to miss someone you never met. The most you can do is to wonder about how would life have been with them alive, but time usually steals the mental availability to wonder. We get used to life as it is.

Of course they didn't know that, and an awkward silence followed, in which the only sound or movement was Bossuet discreetly pushing Jolly and muttering "you just couldn't be quiet, could you?" They quickly turned to me as Jolly was still silent: "Sorry, we didn't want to…"

"No… there's no problem, really…" I tried to repair that. "It was such a long time ago and I have no memory about it, so I can't really say it hurts me."

"Anyway…" Jolly finally spoke, still embarrassed. "May I ask what happened to them?"

"Well, I…"

I sighed, and stopped for a while.

I've said this phrase a thousand times.

It's the correct and usual answer for this.

Why was it, for the first time, being so hard to answer?

"I don't know."

"You don't?" I'm sure Bossuet didn't wanted to insist, but they both looked so intrigued that he couldn't avoid the question.

"No I don't. No one was able to tell me."

Another awkward silence. This time is my turn to cut it.

"It's late and… I think I should go to sleep. We meet tomorrow at the café…" I slowly turned to the door, hoping that I could really go to the next meeting. We said goodbye, they left. I sat on my bed, convincing myself that I should really go to sleep as I told them, go to sleep as if nothing had happened.

I really wanted to fall asleep. But I was feeling… too guilty.

I never asked what happened.

I keep making questions, interviewing the entire world where I live, asking them about everything, and still I never questioned anyone about me.

The following seconds were a confusing spiral of contradictions. As I got up, walking in circles in a gradual speed, I started to lecture myself.

How could you, Thérese, search for something where you could risk being emotionally involved?

How could you dare to drop such a glorious and imperative subject to question something about an insignificant creature like you, a tiny dot in a huge canvas?

There are subjects of more importance knotting my strengths right now. I'm struggling to find the time to write! Why waste my time to know something that happened so long ago, and that I can't mend. Cold as I can sound, cold as I know I am, I don't care, _I can't care_.

And so I promised, I solemnly promised to myself. I shall not search about my ancestors. At least, not until I finish writing everything that has to be written about Les Amis.


	10. All the Anger in the Land

It now feels like a reason to be ashamed. But I must write the truth, even if it is embarrassing for me: for a few days, I disappeared from the uprising, from the café, and for them. Even from writing.

The anxiety for finishing all my work overpowered all the thoughts, specially because only now I become conscious of how I neglected it, and how many orders I have to finish. To endure the frustration, instead of seeing this come to an end, it seems like I'm walking away of it.

Our little lives can be very annoying sometimes.

That until one day.

The first morning light came to hit my closed eyes aggressively, and I crawled out of my bed after another short period of sleep.

There were fabrics, threads, even some forgotten notes and stranded pages, everywhere. Usually my room is not such a mess. This must mean something.

This wasn't the day I would figure out what, in any case.

There was a lot of work to do, again. I can't stop now if I want to have this going at a good rate.

This is perfectly efficient and organized… in theory.

As I was combing my hair and getting dressed at the same time (I'm used to it, there's no time to waste), familiar and uncertain steps echoed on the ceiling, spreading to the staircase.

Or he got up too early today, and the headache must be huge, or he hasn't even gone to bed yesterday, and the amount of alcohol in his veins must be huge. Both very unpleasant options that I intended to avoid.

Too late. He was knocking.

I sighed. It's fine… it's just fine… I'll see what he wants, I'll be fast, and I'll get back to work. Simple. Very simple.

I quickly ran my fingers through my hair that was still down to my wait instead of braided or tied up as usual, and opened the door in a quick and dry gesture.

The Grantaire I found out there confused me. I expected to be able to identify if he was sober or not at first, but this time I couldn't.

The amount of inexplicable details is already bothering today, and it's only morning. Great for my bad mood. Anyway I opened my mouth to say "good morning". He interrupted me immediately.

"You haven't been at the meetings. Why?"

"Well good morning for you too monsieur…" I started as he entered the room (without being invited, of course).

He looked intrigued by the amount of pages spread around, even not knowing that I haven't touched on my writing for days. I really hoped he was not going to criticize the lack of order in the room, because I'm sure his apartment doesn't look better.

"Alright, Grantaire… as you can see, I'm working. I hope you have a really good excuse to…"

"Working. Of course, you're working!" he interrupted again and pretended to bow in a mocking way.

Oh please, I have no patience for these games now… also…

I don't get the purpose of that accusative tone.

"I suppose when you've finished your "work", when you've ran out of subject… you'll just come back to the café, pretend to be interested, pretend to believe in it, and then you'll have more to "work" about?"

"What are you talking about?" I could have just explained that I wasn't even writing on those days, but I sensed something more serious on this words that I couldn't just forget.

"You know it perfectly! Do you think you can just scrutinize us in detail and then dump everything when you're bored?"

He seems surprisingly offended. And he surprisingly offended me as well.

"I haven't done it! How ironic, someone that listen you talking for the first time would think you're a perfectly devoted revolutionary! And I don't have to give explanations about my life to a… an ignorant like you!" my voice tone started to become louder, ignoring the antipathy of my words.

"It is a pity that I am "an ignorant", for I would quote you a crowd of things to prove you wrong, but I don't know anything!" He responded. "You, _au contraire_, mademoiselle… you're so well-educated that you can easily use it to despise anyone as you want…"

"It… it is… this is almost ridiculous! How do you come here to give me a lecture when you're a total cynic! Enjolras is right, you don't believe in anything at all!"

"Well, you know what? I don't! But I believe in him. Something you don't. You are the one who is unable to believe in anything at all! You may go around with all of that "childhood friends" talk, but you're colder than ice inside!"

"How dare you to…"

"Oh, am I wrong? Tell me, do you believe this? Do you believe in Enjolras? You only want a subject for your writing, nothing more! I may be the cynic, but you, Thérese… you managed to be worst than me! Congratulations!"

I was unable to answer him, and I wanted to push him away because deep inside, I knew he was partially right.

"You've been only… analyzing us! But don't worry, since this thing has such a huge chance of ruining us all, you'll have a great tragic ending to make your work even easier to sell!"

"You're the one who took me there in the first place!" I shouted, trying to defend myself. He totally ignored my weak argument:

"Yes, I did, and I won't regret. And now you're preparing to despise it… but I hope you won't forget… if there's a revolution, you can't stay in the middle."

It was almost scary to see him so serious.

"I know. I know it. But you're making such a deal about it that it's unbelievable! Maybe things will turn out easier than you're saying, and besides… life is not just a matter of black or white…"

"That's right: there's a thin gray space in the middle that you plan to occupy perfectly!"

Those words.

_I'll write against ignorance. I'll write against the gray spaces you think life is made of._

"Get out, Grantaire." I murmured biting my lip and turning my back on him. My mistakes were brought to me in the most painful way. "Get out and don't you dare to cross my way for a long time or…"

"Or what? You know that I'm right and you don't want to admit it!"

"You cannot claim to be right when you're doing _exactly the same thing!"_ I shouted so loud that it was probably heard from the streets, so loud that none of us noticed someone running upstairs and appearing at the door suddenly, with a still uncertain breathing:

"Hey…"

"_What?"_ I turned to the door furiously at the same time that Grantaire did the same. We realized it was Jehan.

I made an effort to calm down:

"Sorry… we were… well it doesn't matter…"

"You must come now. Everybody is gathering we have to go!" he explained, while running to the front door again. Everything about him denoted urgency and rush, even his voice tone, usually so soft and now altered denoting something too serious.

"What happened?"

Jehan stopped and looked back at us anxiously:

"General Lamarque's health declined even more last night. People are saying he's not going to last until the end of the week."

The time was coming.

And it was, for anyone that could see, the most ironical scene… feel free to laugh about us, while you imagine Jehan, the poet, the idealist, running through the streets of Paris, followed closely and in the same step by the two greatest "skeptics" this city would ever meet.

* * *

The chaos emerged from everywhere, from every stone in the streets, from every wall in the square. We arrived quickly, and ran across the crowd by instinct, trying to get closer to the gates of General Lamarque's house.

And as we ran across that crowd, we began to assimilate all that stir, how they were screaming for fear of losing their own support, screaming for justice.

Somehow we get lost, somehow we reunited, somehow the entire group was together in the front line. Gavroche immediately ran to meet us, Courfeyrac picked him from the floor and carried him in his shoulders. As an older brother would do; That image made me smile.

Right before our eyes, Enjolras, speaking to the crowd. This time Marius was with him, taking a part on the speech as well, which made me gain a bit more consideration for him. Perhaps he's not just the daydreamer I've been judging him to be. Perhaps he's just divided, as we all can be at some point.

As the people incessantly asked how were they going to live, what was going to happen next, we focused on his words, as the crowd did.

It will come, it will come.

I felt a bit proud to see him talking for such a big group.

"Where are the leaders of the land?" Enjolras answered with another question. The power on his voice showed how he truly was capable of being terrible, how he could stir the people to action, how he was, by definition, a leader himself. "Where is the king who runs this show?"

"Only General Lamarque speaks for the people…" Marius added "and he's fading fast, as you all know." That reality made the crowd stir again.

"How long before the judgment day? Before we cut the fat ones down to size?" Even knowing him for so much time, I've never seen such energy on him. "_Before the barricades arise?__"_

As long as I live I'll always recall his magnificent voice letting that phrase echo across space and time. Realizing that, at some point, the little boy that used to run across the gardens of our childhood became the man I'm following.

That was the first time we heard that word coming from Enjolras' mouth: _barricade._

As far as I researched, the barricades are no strangers to Paris. But Paris keeps rejecting them, like a mother who abandons her sons.

The enthusiasm made us accept as true that this time it would be different.

The speech ended soon and abruptly. In a chocking contrast with the disorganized crowd where we were, a perfectly ordered line of perfectly equal individuals formed… the guard.

Of course. We are "disturbing the peace". We are rebels.

Yes, I admit it. I forgot. It's a foolish and way too obvious thing to be forgotten… but I forgot it, indeed.

I forgot that, raising a revolution, we were opposing to the government, and to the basis of the society we lived.

To raise a people from the ashes, we would have to play with fire.


	11. If He Asked

On that moment I realized that all the time I spend running around gave me the practice to be at least a bit agile, although honestly I didn't want to run. I wanted to face them, as I did when I kept looking back as all of the students that screamed "Vive la France" with such conviction.

Between the commotion, we gathered again. Seems instinctive for us to gather. Specially if Enjolras is in the center, entangling us in his magnetism.

Here we were, under the midday air, under some random archway, and we would have just kept walking if it wasn't for Enjolras stopping us. He seemed deeply involved in his own thoughts.

"Can I have a minute of your attention, please?" he asked. Of course he could, we would give him all the time he demanded of us. He should have known that.

"You are free to agree or not, but I think we should reunite earlier today. We have no time to waste."

Two things deeply disturbed me. One was that I impatiently waited for a clearer explanation of what should we do now, and that wasn't happening. The other…

The other was that, looking at us… the small, eccentric group devotedly joined there, and thinking about the defenses we just saw, I never…

I never realized we were so little.

And yet, as I focused each one of them, as I remembered the potential held in all of those magnificent human beings which seemed so ordinary at first, I felt so unworthy of being among them, that I could only think they were so enough. _They were glorious._

The first part of my concern also collapsed right after.

"I shall remind you that the army we'll fight is dangerous. No one should be forced to stay." Enjolras started, in a lower voice, yet so powerful, as if he was granting us the knowledge about an important secret. At first I thought it was because of the somehow public nature of the place we were (although there's no one else there except us), but then we realized it was because he was sharing with us such a magnificent thought, one that couldn't have been told otherwise. "However, the times we live will never repeat again. And it's up to each one of us to cast the shadows of tyranny away, and to build the light of Tomorrow. Our ancestors, searching for liberty, demolished the Bastille stone by stone; we are building the future, idea by idea, day by day. Each one of you, right now, holds not only your own life, but the lives of an entire people in your hands. Each one of us is walking out of the night, climbing with every breath and effort to the daylight, _and we should never be able to walk back again."_

I guess there's nothing else I can comment or write about those words, those wonderful words.

And even feeling still so undeserving of this honor life oddly delivered me, the army we would face seemed suddenly insignificant. I'd follow Enjolras, my leader, I'd follow them all, my friends; I followed them faithfully to the café, and I'd follow them into the daylight, or into the dark.

As we arrived, as we started working so quickly as we never did, as I stayed in the middle of that space wondering what should I do first, Enjolras walked in my direction, guiding me to the small printer we had in a table at the corner.

"We can use some help later with the munitions…" he pointed to a small caldron at the fireplace were all sort of metallic objects were melting "… but for now you can be here and take care of the texts we'll print. You're a writer, after all…" he smiled as he looked at me.

"Sure. I'll help on anything that is needed." I smiled back.

At this point I forgot how unusual that sentence used to be ,coming from me. Now it's not, I guess.

He must have been extremely busy, but instead of walking away, he stayed for a moment, even when I started to work.

"I know you didn't stay away for much time… and I'm not judging you for that…" he started.

"Well I… I didn't want to; I had some problems with…" I began to try an explanation, slightly ashamed of my disappearance.

"It's fine! You don't have to explain me…" he gently stopped me, placing a hand upon my left shoulder "I just wanted to say that it's really good to have you back. You're as important as any of us, and… _I'm counting on you too. _"

He smiled again, and as I smiled back still caught by surprise he left. With that captivating expression that was the pure embodiment of hope on his cause, of hope on us all…

Of hope on me.

* * *

_I was getting ready to open the gates, but he stopped me:_

"_You don't have to… I'm not getting in."_

_He looked sad._

"_Why? What happened?"_

"_I'm leaving"._

_Well… I've noticed some movement on his house on the last few days… maybe they were travelling, I thought. _

"_Oh… and when are you coming back?" _

_He kept looking down to the ground, his hands behind his back._

"_We are… moving. My parents want to live closer to Paris."_

_We stayed in silence for a few strange, disturbing instants. I broke it, opening the gate with a metallic sound that invaded our thoughts. _

"_But you cannot go! It's so far…" _

"_It's not that far." He muttered, stubbornly wanting to convince himself. However, he finally looked up, first all around, then at me: "It's not that far and we'll meet again, right?" _

_It didn't seem true, but who would dare to refuse believing it. _

"_Look, Thérese…" he started again, finally showing what he was hiding behind his back "you… keep this, I promise I'll come back to take it." He tried to smile as he showed me a long and thin golden chain with a ring tied to it. _

"_What is it?" I asked, and before I finished the sentence he quickly left the chain around my neck._

"_It was from my mother, I guess… I have it since I was a baby and… you'll keep it, don't you?" _

_I ran back to the garden, biting my lip and trying not to cry. As fast as I could, since I sensed time running out so fast, I grabbed one of my notebooks, the one where I was writing at that time:_

"_I only promise if you take this with you." _

_On the following minutes that in my mind lasted for less than a second, he picked the book from my hands, we hugged goodbye, and he left. _

* * *

The job became automatic as I was so focused on my memory. Why was I remembering a childhood episode, the last time I saw him before all of this?

I didn't even noticed that Bahorel was working at the printer with me, which was a bit embarrassing because I strongly believe that he may have talked to me and I haven't even listened. I tried to pay more attention to him.

"It's a bit strange to see you working on this…" I smiled defying him. It really didn't match his ready-to-fight-at-all-times image.

"Isn't it? Well they sent me here, I believe they don't trust me close to the weapons!" he joked.

I laughed as well, but one word captured my attention.

Weapons. Again.

Finally, my remote memory makes sense. As I looked around to all of them, I'm reminded of all the friendships I developed here, and I can see why my mind brought back that memory of how loss feels like. Because, deep inside me, there's certain apprehension about the possibility that they might get hurt, somehow.

A remote possibility, of course. I need to ignore it.

By a mere accident, while still contemplating my friends at the café, my eyes meet Grantaire. He's the only one that is just drinking in a darker corner. It should be easy to despise him after everything he said, But there was something in his eyes that… terrified me.

It terrified me, because I felt that, as he keeps drinking, he's also staring at everybody, specially at Enjolras. He's staring at him, without being seen, and in his eyes, there's concern. The same concern I have in mine, but in a much deeper lever. It terrified me, to feel that we were sharing that apprehensive thought, and that he's already in such a darker level of it.

On that moment, that mere moment, we both were unnoticed observers of a possible tragedy, and no one would be able to understand that, but us.

Our thoughts may have been the same, but our reactions were different.

"Just excuse me for a minute…" I tried to smile to Bahorel and I walked closer to a big table were a great number of weapons were gathered. Slowly, I opened my bag.

"May I…?" I inquired, pointing to a small gun and a knife.

They were trying to avoid it, of course, but everybody close to the table stopped and stared at me astonished. Well, I shouldn't have expected other reaction…

"…yes!" Courfeyrac finally answered, and I picked the guns throwing them to my bag, trying to forget why I was doing it. "but… well… you can, but do you know how to use a weapon of some sort…"

I looked at him, and the only answer that occurred to me was _I don't, but I'm quite sure you all don't know it as well._ The phrase was too demolishing to be pronounced, and so I kept silent. He silenced himself as well. It was Combeferre who finished the sentence, walking closer, whispering another question.

"Are you sure?"

Believe it or not, what moved me was not fear for my life. I was starting to feel a protective instinct towards them all that I never felt for anyone else, even for myself.

I closed my bag, dropped it at the floor as if nothing happened, and answered while walking back to the printer:

"We live in dangerous times."


End file.
